


Elves in Kilts

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [38]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gossip, Ithilien, Kilts, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3598491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late-night conversations in Ithilien as the wine goes round can be - illuminating. Only all too often - elves don't understand mortals. </p><p>Not that mortals understand elves, much of the time. At least, Gimli doesn't.</p><p>(Rated for undercurrents to conversation.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elves in Kilts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Wynja2007, who likes her elves in kilts.
> 
> Here is a slightly silly story, just for you.

The wine has been passed round a few times before he comes out with it, but it’s clearly been worrying him for a while,

“Lord Gimli,” he starts off, and that's never a good sign – I’m only lord to this bloody elf when he wants something, “lord Gimli, you are mortal – I know you will tell me you are no Man, but – explain something to me, please, for I think you have more knowledge of this than any other here?”

I wait, then,

“As you know, I have been speaking with Faramir – and all is agreed as we would wish,” yes, I think, you devious bugger Caradhil, I bet it is, “but – once again, he spoke of Meieriel as my wife – “

Meieriel does not growl – not exactly.

“- and once again, I corrected him – but – I am grown used to that misunderstanding – only he said again – that he is surprised I am content with her – her clothing. What now? I thought – we have always been careful here – we do not relax our clothing rules as we would in the Forest – at least, not when there are mortals by, we do not.”

Bloody weird elves. Do they really prance round this land naked? Not sure whether the thought is wonderful or horrendous.

Shameless certainly.

Fuck knows what Faramir would make of it. 

Eowyn would laugh, that I am sure of – laugh, and quite possibly contrive to arrive, by chance – and the outrage on both sides does not bear thinking. Which is why I haven’t said anything to her – she is too like her fool brother.

Something else I am sure of – I am not leaving my elf here. Not that I don’t trust him – just – well – I don’t trust bloody Caradhil not to persuade him. Put it that way.

He frowns, and drinks again, and looks at me,

“I do not understand. And it is the kind of thing which – when I write to Droin – he makes no sense either.”

Fucks sake. 

I try.

“Droin is not – not one to speak lightly of such things,” I say, and shrug, “you know he lost his beloved – she died – I do not even know how close they were,” I stop, wondering how to say – I don’t know if Droin is still a virgin – I’m sure he knows the mechanics, he has dragged me out of enough beds in his time that I think he knows many of the jokes – but, whether he still looks, still thinks about it – it’s not the kind of thing he and I would speak about. But – why is Faramir worried about their clothes? I look at Meieriel, and she looks as elves – female elves – look. She wears pretty much the same as a male elf – only – sometimes – she adds a skirt-type thing. 

Oh.

“Skirt’s a bit short,” I say.

They look at me – fuck – all of the buggers now – staring at me. Like I’m some kind of – I don’t know – oddity for noticing.

“What?” I say, “You asked. Her skirt – all of you – when you wear them – they are short. Have you never noticed how long women – especially of Gondor – wear their skirts?”

There is a babble of Sindarin, and I can’t follow it – too fast, too many of them – too much chorusing and repeating, too many words I don’t recognise. I look at my elf, and I wait.

He flushes.

Sweet as ever.

“They say – they say – “he hesitates a moment, and his ears – oh his sweet ears – they are redder than ever. I wonder what the fuck these elves are saying – and I look at bloody Caradhil.

“They say they are surprised you notice,” he says, and I cannot read the expression on his face, “vowed as you are, but also – that the women of Gondor tend to spend less time on horses, or up trees, or planting, and so on.”

I shrug, 

“Peasants don’t wear skirts any shorter,” I say, and then – oh for the love of Durin, “a peasant is one who tills the fields, grows things, you bloody ignorant elves – farmers. Yes?”

“It makes no sense,” and there are moments when I wonder about Meieriel. So intelligent, yet – to wish for a custom to make sense? “Why would it matter? We are covered – as covered as your Legolas – and that contents you. Not that it is any of Caradhil’s business how covered or not I am. And Faramir should know that by now. I am surprised at Eowyn. Mortals are very odd at times.”

Mortals are odd?

Mahal give me strength.

She looks cross, and bloody Caradhil – puts his hand on hers, a rare sign of affection between them,

“More than that,” he says, and I can see he is trying to make peace – they are a strange couple, yet I think if there is any that Caradhil respects and listens to, it is her, “your skirt is many times longer than the kilts we used to wear poling the rafts down to Esgaroth in the heat.”

“That was many years ago,” someone says, “many years since you were on raft duty, Caradhil.”

“And has the weather changed?” he asks, eyebrow raised, and no, no it has not changed, and the elf is at great pains to make it clear he meant no disrespect.

“We wore kilts then for practicality,” bloody smug Caradhil continues, “I remember – it was so hot in the summer – is it not, lord Gimli, in that land? – We used to strip down to just the kilts. All of us. I suppose – now I think – Lalornneth – she it was I combed with mostly then – and the other ellyth – would usually pull on some kind of – tunic before we reached the town. But none ever commented,” he sighs, “perhaps the people of Esgaroth were simply more used to elves.”

“More used to your King’s trade,” I say, cynically, and he thinks for a moment, and then agrees.

“Kilts are gone out of the Forest now though,” one says, “they are – well – discouraged.”

Caradhil nods, and there is another babble of Sindarin, trying to account for it. 

“Lalornneth?” I ask my Legolas, quietly, because I have not heard that name before,

“I do not know,” he shrugs, “it is a long time ago. She may be dead. Caradhil has combed with many – I think the years he was on rafts I was – not quite of age?”

Caradhil smiles, and I hate him for his superiority, for his long, long knowledge of my elf,

“You were turning of age,” he says, “but Erebor was scarce begun. The first kingdom under the mountain, that would be. As for Lalornneth – do you know, I have no idea what became of her? It is a long life, lord Gimli, I cannot keep the stories of all those I have combed with in my head.”

“There’s not one that forgets you though, Caradhil of the persuasive voice and skilled hands,” calls out someone, and there is laughter.

He shrugs, the gesture beautiful and meaningless, even as he is sleek and untrustworthy to my eyes,

“I could not say,” he says, “but why did we cease the kilts? When last I looked, all the raft-elves wore leggings.”

Sindarin again I think as the chatter rises – but, no.

“I said, no Silvan, Sindarin or Westron only,” he calls, and I wonder why this matters to him, “no, Westron, or the lord will be taking our prince away, saying we do not care for his company.”

Fucks sake.

“The kilts were discouraged,” Finrusc – it is always Finrusc – calls out, “after that scandal – do you not remember? In the northern Halls?”

Scandal?

About a kilt?

Legolas and Caradhil look at each other, blank as I am.

“Was that in the years I was raft-poling?” Caradhil asks, “I only know I came home, and many things were – slightly changed. My sweet prince was grown, and refugees from Lorien had come, and kilts were suddenly – not appropriate. I thought it was a Galadhrim thing.”

“No,” Finrusc is delighted to be centre of attention, “no, it was that scandal – do you not remember – that – what was his name? You combed with him – “

“That hardly narrows it down,” another calls, and there is laughter,

“You should not laugh,” Finrusc says, “it was – awful. Unelven behaviour. C – Ca - Canadieth? Something like that. And then – no more kilts.”

Caradhil is thinking, 

“Canadion?” he asks, “I do remember him. Lovely hair, beautiful – like silk. Huge eyes, and his pretty ears – well, never mind. What did he do?”

Fuck. I have never heard Caradhil sound so – wistful. How intriguing.

Finrusc shrugs, sadly,

“I never heard. No-one would ever say outright.”

“Probably shared his comb once too often,”  
“-shared with too many in one night – “  
“- said no and then yes – “  
“or yes and then no – “  
“-that is doubtful, I remember him – the word no was not one he would ever use,”  
“oh, I think – was there not some talk of – of his captain – they were combing alone?””  
“well that is hardly scandal – “  
“- but it was – I do not know – he must have done something,”  
“that one – always had his head in a different elf’s hands,”  
“rarely combing, always combed,”  
“couldn’t keep with one elf at a time,”  
“never stayed with one elf a night,”  
“he was – well – scandalous.”

Fuck. I don’t understand bloody elves.

“He had a sweet voice, and a pretty comb, I remember that,” Caradhil says, and although he speaks quietly, it is firm enough that the others cease their – unkindness. Interesting, I think, bloody Caradhil seems to remember this elf with something that – were he any other – I would call fondness. As it is – I suppose he was useful.

That is unkind, Gimli. Legolas would not like to hear you say that.

Which is, of course, precisely why I shan’t say it.

Still think it though.

Then Finrusc, drunk on the heady wine of attention, speaks again, 

“Do you really not remember, Caradhil? There was – later – all the talk about the son of Thorod – “

“Enough,” Caradhil shouts, and the elves are silent, Finrusc looking terrified, and I wonder what he was about to say, “enough of such gossip. Things changed – doubtless our King had the best of reasons – and there is an end to it.”

There is silence a moment, and then – as always with elves – there is more wine, and more song – and the evening continues.

Later we rise from the tables, and the elves begin to sort themselves into combing groups – Meieriel is gathering up Tegylwen and Taithel – Taithel is still explaining something earnestly to my Legolas. He has a – a beetle, I think – and it is, apparently, very important that Legolas hear all about it. Bloody weird elves and their elflings – child – well, both children – should have been in bed hours ago. That's one thing I will never get used to – they hang around every evening, drinking watered down wine, picking at food, joining in the conversation, up and down from the table – running about – Mahal only knows what my parents would make of it. Suppose it is a good thing my elf is no female – no little ones for us to argue over their upbringing. 

Still. 

There’s the odd moment when I wonder.

No. Elflings clearly are – fulltime. I am not patient – and my daft sodding elf – much as he loves these two – all of them – I don’t think he would want to see me put any other before him.

For all that – it’s the best thing that ever happened to Caradhil, he makes that clear. 

Best thing about him, really. Only – for fucks sake – a bit of bloody discipline wouldn’t hurt. 

I resign myself to a wait – I know my daft sodding elf will not hurry the little one, however impatient I appear. Caradhil – who also will never hurry his son – bloody elves – sits casually on the table beside me, and I can’t resist the temptation to ask,

“The son of Thorod-something Finrusc said – is that Thorodwar – brother of my Legolas? What happened? Why did you silence him?”

He looks at me,

“I do not know, and I do not want to know,” he says, and there is a coldness in his voice, “in all honesty, lord Gimli, I do not know – and it is best not to ask. Nothing good ever came of those two. Best not to enquire. All I know is that there was tragedy in the North, and there is an end to questions. My prince will not know either – it was all kept very quiet – and it is perhaps as well that he does not. I think it unlikely that any – any joy would be found in pursuing it. Sindar are very strange. Do not ask my prince more,” and then he looks at me, and for an instant all the old mistrust is in his eyes, “and I am not at ease that you have been noticing skirt lengths, my lord Gimli. I told you once – if you hurt my prince – I will hunt you down and end both your life and honour. Do not think my friendship with your cousin changes that. If I find I have reason to think – if you hurt my sweet Legolas – if you look elsewhere with your dwarvish eyes, and touch with dwarvish hands, then – believe me – I will cut you so that you no longer wish to – do not mistake me on this.”

His hand is on his dagger – and – shit – he means it. 

There was a time – not that long ago – when I would have sworn at him, and shouted, and offered insult for insult, threat for threat. Now – now I look him in the eyes, and quietly I say,

“I have eyes – I am not an elf – to love does not change that for me. I cannot but see – but now it means nothing. Your prince is still my beloved, and that is the way the world is. There is none other in it for me. And Caradhil – you know, and I know, that is an empty threat. Neither one of us would deprive Legolas of anything he values.”

Reluctantly he nods,

“Unless he ceases to value it,” he says.

“Even so,” I say, then, “but Caradhil – I do wish I had seen you all in your kilts.”

There is a moment when I think I have played it wrong, but the tension fades and he grins,

“No, you do not,” he says, “but it is perhaps a shame my prince never wore one.”

We laugh.

My pretty elf turns back to us, beetle-lesson finished, and smiles, delighted with our friendship.

 

 

 

When we are alone on our flet, I ask if it is true, that he never had one of these kilts, and my pretty Legolas laughs, and then sighs,

“No, I was too young – I was too – Sindar. You forget – I never left the Forest. Not for many years after that. And even then – I would never have poled rafts. That is fairly – how do you say it – unskilled – work,” he looks at me, and something of my thought must show on my face, “you forget,” he says again, “things are very different here. Caradhil – Caradhil was nothing special before we left. Oh, he worked his way to group leader – at least – he would have, had I not been there – but – he is a very ordinary elf. His parents were ordinary. He is not even Silvan aristocracy – is that the word you would use?”

“It might be,” I say, and I think about this, “so – his parents – were they poor, even?” because that would make sense of many things, it seems to me.

My daft elf looks at me as though he does not understand – and perhaps he doesn't, “Not poor in the way you mean,” he says, “there is not an elf in the Forest who hungers, or wants for anything – but – I suppose – if we were as mortals – how can I say it? Finrusc would be – one of Eomer’s marshals, trusted but never without orders – Meieriel might – I do not know – who does Eomer listen to – an advisor, but skilled in war also – Erkenbrand perhaps – but Caradhil – a spearcarrier. If that. A – what was the word you used? – a peasant from the Westfold, perhaps. Nothing else. Ithilien is very different to the Forest of my lord King.”

Hmm.

Well.

Fuck me. That is interesting. 

Explains a lot, I suppose. 

“I don’t understand though,” I say, even as he is hunting out our combs, and looking hopeful, and shedding some clothes, and snuggling up to me, “why is it funny and – and admirable that Caradhil has combed so many, but that Canadion was – what was the phrase – sharing his comb with so many – is not?”

My elf looks at me,

“Because Caradhil combs, but Canadion – preferred to be combed. It – oh – it is difficult to explain. But it makes all the difference in the world.”

I look at him, and he is silent a moment,

“It should not,” he says, “you are right, even without speech. It should not. But – I am afraid it does.”

Bloody weird elves, I think, and I pull him into my arms,

“Well,” I say, “perhaps it is a good thing no-one needs know which you prefer, my sweet love,” and he sighs a little as he relaxes against me, and – I know it will not be long before he is dreamy and loving, and – ready for much more than bloody combing.

I admit, though, I do rather wish those kilts had not gone out of fashion.

**Author's Note:**

> Canadion, as ever, appears courtesy of Wynja2007 (see the epic Where It Doesn't Show, for more of his wonderful personality - and, indeed, his kilt.)
> 
>  
> 
> Caradhil, Meieriel, their elflings, and, indeed, the ever-tactless Finrusc, are mine.


End file.
